hostelry. To her girlish mind it had breathed the last
word of splendour, movement, gaiety--all that was connoted by the
magical name of the City of Light. But now the glamour had departed.
She wondered whether it had ever been. Oliver had laughed at her
experiences. Sandwiched between dear old Uncle Edward and Aunt Sophia,
what in the sacred name of France could she have seen of Paris? Wait
till they could turn round. He would take her to Paris. She would have
the unimagined time of her life. They dreamed dreams of the Rue de la
Paix--he had five hundred pounds laid by, which he had ear-marked for
an orgy of shopping in that Temptation Avenue of a thoroughfare; of
Montmartre, the citadel of delectable wickedness and laughter; of
funny little restaurants in dark streets where you are delighted to
pay twenty francs for a mussel, so exquisitely is it cooked; of dainty
and crazy theatres; of long drives, folded in each other's arms, when
moonlight touches dawn, through the wonders of the enchanted city.

Her brief dreams had eclipsed her girlish memories. Now the dreams had
become blurred. She strove to bring them back till her soul ached,
till she broke down into miserable weeping. She was alone in a
strange, unedifying town; in a strange, vast, commonplace hotel. The
cold, moonlit Place de la Vendome, with its memorable column, just
opposite her bedroom window, meant nothing to her. She had the
desolating sense that nothing in the world would ever matter to her
again--nothing as far as she, Peggy Manningtree, was concerned. Her
life was over. Altruism alone gave sanction to continued existence.
Hence her present adventure. Paris might have been Burslem for all the
interest it afforded.

* * * * *

Jeanne worked from morning to night in the succursale of the Croix
Rouge in the Rue Vaugirard. She had tried, after the establishment of
her affairs, to enter, in no matter what capacity, a British base
hospital. It would be a consolation for her surrender of Doggie to
work for his wounded comrades. Besides, twice in her life she owed
everything to the English, and the repayment of the debt was a matter
of conscience. But she found that the gates of English hospitals were
thronged with English girls; and she could not even speak the
language. So, guided by the Paris friend with whom she lodged, she
made her way to the Rue Vaugirard, where, in the packing-room, she had
found hard unemotional emp